


tell me something that'll save me

by acetonebabe (ifthesuncomesup), gdgdbaby



Series: feelings about fangs [1]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Body Horror, F/M, Porn with Feelings, Vagina Dentata, White House Era (Crooked Media RPF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 09:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17846624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifthesuncomesup/pseuds/acetonebabe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: There's a familiar current running through Emily's blood, asking,Are we hunting? Is the game on?She tells it,No, sternly.We aren't hunting. We're keeping.





	tell me something that'll save me

**Author's Note:**

> **lucy:** what a quip ad [this](https://twitter.com/gremIing/status/1002086445211832320) would be  
>  **lucy:** i haven't given much thought about how vagina dentata could be made sexy but i suppose anything is possible  
>  **alice:** it does feel a little goosebumps-y but i feel like it’s not incapable of being sexy?  
>  **alice:** like, it certainly calls for a lot of Trust and that’s hot
> 
> and the rest was history

**From:** jfavreau81@gmail.com  
**To:** emhblack@gmail.com  
**Date:** Fri, Jun 17, 2011 at 10:32 AM  
**Subject:** Yacht?

Hey Emily, this is Jon from the bar last night! My buddy Shomik rented a yacht this weekend, and I was wondering if you and your friends wanted to come hang out with us on the Georgetown waterfront tomorrow.

\--

 **From:** emhblack@gmail.com  
**To:** jfavreau81@gmail.com  
**Date:** Fri, Jun 17, 2011 at 12:11 PM  
**Subject:** Re: Yacht?

As much as I appreciate the offer, Judge Black always advised me not to go to sea with strangers. :)

\--

On their sixth real land-based date, at a fancy tapas bar in Dupont Circle, Jon takes her hand, stares into her eyes, and says, with as much earnest sincerity as he can muster (which is a lot, as she's learned over the last month): "You know we can go as slow as you like, right?"

Emily swallows around the bite of paella in her mouth. "I know," she says, can't help the little giggle that sneaks out afterward, or the clench in her gut when she thinks about it.

He scrunches his nose at her, their fingers tangling together on the table. "What are you laughing about? I'm serious."

"I know," she repeats, shaking her head. For as long as Emily can remember, she's been rehearsing a speech in her head in anticipation of a scenario such as this, but all of her careful preparation seems to have sailed right out the window. Maybe it's the cocktail she's been sipping, or how their legs are pressed together beneath the table, or the way Jon's looking at her.

Emily wants him to keep looking at her like that, which isn't something she's let herself think about a boy in a while.

"Remember the first time you asked me out?" she says instead. "Your friend had rented a boat."

Jon grins. "Yeah. You said your dad told you not to go to sea with a stranger. Smart man."

"That wasn't because he was afraid for me."

Emily bites down on her lip when Jon tilts his head, confused. It's now or never. She likes Jon too much to keep hiding from him forever. She leans in, the sweep of her hair falling into her face, and Jon ducks too, mirroring her.

"I, ah," she says, swallowing. "I have a condition." She shakes her head, manages a weak smile through the tension running up her spine. Jon leans in even closer; she's being quiet, overly mindful of the tables around them. "No, that makes it sound like I'm sick, sorry. It's not like that. I have, like—teeth, I guess, is the easiest way to explain it. Or fangs. In my, um, vagina, like a built-in defense mechanism. Handy to have, but hard for people to understand. You can see why I don't bring it up right away." Her heart feels like it's trying to jump out of her chest. She's never _told_ anyone before, never talked about it with anyone but her family. It feels like the most terrifying thing she's ever done, and now it's entirely out of her control.

Jon blinks a few times. He's sitting very still, but his hand in hers hasn't gone slack, and he hasn't pulled away yet, miraculously. Emily can see the gears in his head turning. She inhales sharply when he opens his mouth, and then he asks, thoughtful, "So, um, do you have to brush them?"

Emily's so startled that she starts laughing again, the tightness in her chest easing just a fraction.

He starts laughing too, scratching his neck with his free hand. "My bad, that was a stupid question."

"No, it wasn't, it's perfectly valid," she says. Their server swings by to refill their waters, and Emily waits for him to leave before leaning back in. "I don't brush them, no. Do you think I should?"

"I'm sure you're more of an expert." The tips of his ears are pink. Emily wants to touch them, get her mouth on them.

She reaches up to tuck her hair behind her own ear. "Thanks for not being—for not freaking out. I just thought it would be wise to tell you about it before we, you know. Went any further. Which I do want to do."

"Oh," Jon says, smiling again. "Okay. Me too."

Emily takes a couple deep breaths to calm down, let her heart rate level out, and then picks up her fork to keep eating. The paella at this place is delicious, the shrimp nice and plump, and after, when she's already stuffed, Jon orders a dessert for them too, cinnamon churros dipped in dulce de leche. Decadent. 

They take a walk up toward 16th Street after Jon gets the check. It's a nice night, not too muggy for July, and Jon's pressed in close enough that she can smell his spicy cologne. They've done this at least a few times by now, strolling together holding hands, and things feel close to normal when he tucks his chin over her shoulder and asks, "Could I—can I see them?"

Emily nearly trips over her own feet. There's no question what he's talking about, and Emily wouldn't do him the disservice of playing dumb. "You... want to?"

"I want to know everything about you," Jon says, like it's that simple. His hands are warm around her waist.

She's tried not to think about the way regular people have sex, but she's considered giving into the _other_ way once or twice. The way _her_ body is designed to do it. She could understand the appeal, maybe, the power rush from having control like that. With Jon, though—Jon's gazing at her with those imploring eyes, and when he gives her that slow, gap-toothed smile, she doesn't want to bite him. She doesn't want him all groggy and out of it underneath her; she wants him to be lucid for the whole thing. She wants him to remember it all.

He's still close enough that she can feel his breath on the side of her neck. She's pretty sure they're both nearly jittering out of their skin with anticipation. There's a familiar current running through Emily's blood, asking, _Are we hunting? Is the game on?_

She tells it, _No_ , sternly. _We aren't hunting. We're keeping._

Jon knows the truth about her now, and he's still looking at her like she's the sun. Emily's never felt like this before, so nervous and flustered and excited. He still wants this, and she wants it too. This time, when he pulls her in close and asks if she wants to come back to his place for another drink, it's easier to say yes.

Jon's apartment building is swanky as hell, which makes sense, all things considered. "Nice decor," she says dryly, eyeing the art on the walls. Jon turns a dull red. It's impossible not to wonder how far down his body the flush spreads. 

"Wine?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Sure," Emily says. Going slow will keep everything from escalating too quickly. She slides onto a stool at his kitchen counter, props her chin in her hands. Watching Jon move is a pleasure in and of itself: taking his nice jacket off and throwing it over a chair, rolling up his shirt sleeves, bending over to rummage through a cabinet for the corkscrew. He pours out two glasses of some dark red wine and passes one of them over, watches her in return as she lifts it to her mouth. She sips at it and tries to keep her breathing even, crossing her legs and shifting, like that will muffle how she's already starting to throb between her thighs. Having Jon's full attention is always a lot, but it's especially intense here, when the lights are dim and he keeps running his tongue over his lip. She knows what he's thinking about, what he wants.

Jon finishes his wine in one long swallow, stubble on his chin and neck rippling.

She doesn't notice him moving closer until he's around the corner of the counter and in her space. Jon's eyes are shining when he gently moves the wine glass out of her hand and dips down to kiss her, just once. It's brief, teasing. A promise of what's to come. From the times they've kissed before, she knows he likes this, the flirtation. The lead up. Emily likes it too—it's a pure, hot burn at the bottom of her stomach.

When she reaches up to pull him back in, he makes an eager sound against her mouth. His hands find her knees and she lets him guide them apart so he can stand between them. She can feel instinct waking up deep within her, stretching out muscles tight from disuse, and she has to break away, catch her breath for a moment.

"Is this okay?" Jon asks, pressing her forehead to hers. She keeps cradling his face, exhaling slowly. She can do this. She's in control.

"Just gimme a second," she says, throat raspy and dry, letting her eyes slide shut. Jon hmms, thin fingers squeezing around her knees, and touches his mouth to the corner of hers. It's not insistent, really—or it doesn't feel that way.

It feels like an anchor, the pressure helping her stay rooted in the moment, keeping her here. It's good.

"Okay," she says quietly, opening her eyes. Her hands scratch up against the fuzz of his buzz cut as he kisses her again, long, deep, slow, so thorough that her spine tingles as her breath leaves her. When they break apart, Jon moves down to kiss the pulse point in her neck as she gasps, the delicate line of her collarbone. One of his hands has crept up to rest beneath the hem of her dress, along the seam of her thigh, and she makes a small, high noise when he slides it over to cup the damp crotch of her panties.

"Emily," he says, hoarse. "Em, has anyone ever—would you let me—" and then Jon, sweet, lovely Jon, who should've run shrieking in the other direction when she told him the truth, gets down on his knees and looks up at her with shining eyes, and what he's asking to do hits her like a punch to the stomach.

And the thing is: no one's ever done that for her. No one has ever gotten so close. Emily isn't used to any of this, the heady newness of staring down into someone's face and letting them take over and decide, putting the pleasure of it all in someone else's hands. Or—in his mouth, so to speak.

Anyway. He might still see her—see what she is—and decide, _nah_. That possibility is still on the table too. She shouldn't count her chickens. "It's okay, you can say no," Jon murmurs, turning to kiss the bit of her thigh that's been exposed from her rucked-up dress.

"No, no—I mean, yes," she says, too flustered to do anything but cup his face in her hands again. "Yes. Jon, I want you to."

Jon smiles up at her reassuringly, like _she's_ the one making a gesture that goes against nature and reason, against generations of ghost stories about beautiful not-quite-women who eat the hearts and souls of trusting men. He should be terrified of her. Every bone in his body should be screaming to get away from her—she's _dangerous_ , she's _designed_ to—but instead he's between her legs, exposing the curve of his neck and smiling up at her like he's grateful for _her_ vulnerability.

Her thighs are shaking. Her feet can't quite reach the ground, hooked onto the bars of the stool. Emily feels unmoored, like Jon's palms are the only thing keeping her steady. He noses in close and— _oh_ , licks out, one cautious swipe over her panties.

She's never given more than a passing thought to this before, always wrote it off as something she wasn't allowed to want. She's never imagined how it would feel, someone's tongue tracing over sensitive skin, soft and insistent. It's an electric shock, and she almost kicks out, startled. _Threat?_ her instincts ask. _Good?_ The hair at the nape of her neck stands up.

Jon makes a quiet noise, broadens his strokes, and Emily holds onto the back of his head, cautiously allowing herself to feel. _Not a threat. New. Good._

She squirms down, lifting her hips toward his mouth. It's so weird to be able to feel him _smile_ through the soaked fabric, but—the best kind of weird, the kind that makes her heartbeat pound in her chest, the kind that makes her toes curl.

Jon turns to kiss the inside of her thigh, and his fingers hook around the waistband of her underwear. He waits another beat—long enough for her to stop him if she wanted to, but she doesn't, she doesn't want to—and then slowly starts to peel them down toward her knees.

Emily braces her elbows against the counter behind her and lifts herself up a little to help him, shimmies a bit just to watch Jon swallow. It's hard not to feel exposed once her panties are gone, especially when Jon's eyes are this wide and this dark, staring down between her legs. It's hard not to resist the urge to clamp her knees back together.

"It's, uh," Jon says, tongue flitting out across his lips. His gaze skitters up to meet hers, and then down again. "You look—there's—I can't see anything weird?"

"Yeah, they're inside, dummy," she says, breathless, and smiles when he laughs, the huff of it drifting over her skin.

"Oh, of course," he says. "My mistake." Then he dips his head forward so he can kiss her cunt for real, run his tongue up the seam of it, and Emily's brain fizzes out into white noise.

Her next coherent thought is that Jon's mouth is hot and silky against her. He stays just like that, languid, until she falls into his rhythm, and when he finally traces his tongue all the way up to her clit, she squeaks out a gasp, startled by the sharp, sudden newness of the feeling. It's too loud in his quiet apartment, and she can feel herself flushing, biting down on her lip to stifle herself.

Jon pulls up, kisses the crease of her hip. Licks away the sweat that's starting to form there. "Em, let me hear you?" he says, and his mouth is wet with her, shining in the low light. "It's hot, I promise. I wanna hear." The muscles of her abdomen twitch under his touch.

She forces her jaw to unclench enough to let out a quiet "Please?" She doesn't want to push him, but it feels like she's going to collapse in on herself like the final stages of a dying star if he doesn't give her _more_ soon. Her cunt is clenching, eager for something inside, but in a totally different way than it has before, when she's made out with drunk frat guys at school to test her own limits. It doesn't feel anything like it normally does, a frantic urge to _feed_. This is a slower, more diffuse desire. A human one. She wants more of it, wants to be lit up from the inside out, to feel Jon's warmth radiating through her.

Jon knows what she's asking for, which is a relief because Emily doesn't know if she could say it. His brow furrows, face framed by her legs, but it's more in determination than fear. She hopes. "If I—get my tongue in you, am I gonna—I mean, are you—"

It's a fair question, and Emily has to squeeze her eyes tight to answer honestly. She takes a long moment to listen to herself, catalogue how there's no tell-tale current of heat rushing through her, reckless and out of control. No raw sensation of fangs sharpening, becoming sensitive. Just her own rough desire to touch and be touched.

"No," she says finally, opens her eyes and blinks to clear them. "No, you're okay."

Jon squints a smile up at her. "Good, because I really want to."

He doesn't give her a chance to get another word in edgewise. He licks a broad stripe up her cunt one more time, hands firm against her thighs, and then curls the tip of his tongue just inside her, wet and probing. Emily can't bite back the gasp that tumbles from her mouth; Jon's watching with narrow eyes from between her legs, and she reaches down to cradle his head, palms pressed flat behind his ears. "Shit, Jon," she murmurs, and shudders when she can feel Jon smile again, sucking lightly at her clit as his tongue slides inexorably deeper.

She can tell when he gets to the first ridged groove inside her because his fingers dig into her skin and his eyes go wide. Emily's felt herself plenty of times before, tucked fingers up to feel what it's like. She knows they aren't sharp when they're sheathed, but it must still be different for Jon. She holds her breath; she wants so badly to push forward, wants so badly to wind the coil of pleasure in her belly even tighter, but she has to be careful. She has to keep still. She can't just take with impunity right now.

"You feel," she says, voice wavering. She smoothes her thumbs through the fuzz of his hair, eyes searching his. "Jon, you feel—fucking incredible, please—"

Jon hums against her and cautiously slides further in, until it feels like he's—like he's caressing her with his tongue, the warm pressure of it making her legs tremble.

"Jesus, Jon," she moans, and her nails must be stinging against his scalp, but he keeps going, doesn't pull away. He's mouthing more insistently at her clit now, the movement of his tongue fluid and rhythmic. It makes her whole body sing. It makes her want to cross her legs behind Jon's head and let him do this to her forever.

Her stomach flutters as Jon presses in closer, nose nuzzling into the hair at her crotch. He's still gazing up at her, like he wants to drink in everything about how she looks right now: her mouth dropped open, her sweaty hair sticking to her face, the way her chest is heaving beneath her dress.

"Please," she repeats, so low that she can't be sure he even heard her.

Jon bobs his head, slides his tongue as deep as it'll go, sucking long and hard as Emily bends herself over him and comes and comes and comes.

She can hear herself chanting, "Oh, oh, _oh_ ," too far gone to form any other words. He's slipping out of her before she can come back to herself, before she can even think that—maybe—maybe she wouldn't like that so much, might accidentally try to _keep_ him. But even though she's still clenching involuntarily, her fangs stay sheathed and safe.

He brushes his lips over her clit one last time, almost as if he's kissing it farewell, and it makes her whine. She doesn't recognize this oversensitivity, like she can't possibly take any more but somehow still wants it.

Jon doesn't go far, retreats just enough to press the side of his face into her thigh. He nuzzles at her overheated skin. "I could feel your... fangs. When I was in you."

Emily's hands flutter uselessly at his temples, anxiety spiking. Here it comes. The shoe is about to drop. He'll let her down gently, of course, because Jon's never been anything less than gentle with her. Instead, though, he opens his mouth and continues, "I liked it." He's quiet against her thigh, as if he's embarrassed to say it. "Emily, I liked it a _lot_ , I want to—did you like it? Was it okay for you?"

Jon's eyes are blown, face flushed. He's messy and wet and down on his knees and just had his face buried in a cunt that's literally built to _trap_ him, and he's asking her if _she's okay_? Emily has to laugh, can't suppress the giggles bubbling up from her chest. She nods, overwhelmed, and then he's laughing too, surging up from the ground.

She isn't sure exactly how it happens, but somewhere on his way up he gets his hands under her thighs, pulls her up into his arms. Her legs twine around his waist, an automatic response. When she kisses him, she can taste herself in his mouth. It makes her shudder, hot and joyful and exhilarated.

She can feel how hard he is, the stiff line of his dick through his slacks, and her blood runs hot when he gathers her closer, sighs against her lips. She's come already, but the ache between her legs deepens. She wants him inside her, and for the first time in her life, it doesn't feel quite so terrifying.

Jon's still here. He stuck his tongue inside her and felt the fanged grooves there and hasn't turned back yet. His arms clutch tight around her. When she breaks the kiss and stares down at his face, he looks dazed, awed. His eyes are so soft. She hitches her hips just to hear him sigh again, leans in to press her mouth to the curve of his ear, and murmurs, with confidence she didn't know she had: "Take me to bed, Jon."

Jon says, "Emily," half choked. Emily lets out a squeak as he hefts her higher and spins them so he can stride toward his room. She winds her arms around his neck and crosses her ankles behind his back and holds on, presses wet, open-mouthed kisses against his neck and his jaw and the scratchy side of his cheek. A door clicks open behind her. She loosens her grip as he lays her out on the bed. Her heart's working double time in her chest just from _waiting._

It's brighter in here than it was in the kitchen, the curtains thrown open to let the moonlight into the room. Half of Jon is in shadow as he undresses at the foot of the bed, eyes fixed on her, revealing the long line of his torso, the v of his hips, the trail of hair leading down into his slacks. She unzips her dress as he undoes his belt, tugs it over her head and tosses it to the side and sends her bra following after as he steps out of his pants, peels off his boxer-briefs, and then—and then they're just two people naked in a bedroom together, looking at each other like they're the only other humans in the world.

Emily grips the covers tight to keep herself grounded. It would be so easy to float away on sensation, but she needs to stay present in every moment right now.

Jon knees up onto the bed, and Emily shifts back to accommodate him. He catches her ankle, gaze drifting across her body, hungry and shameless. "How do you usually do this?" he asks, quiet. "How should we do this?"

"Well, I haven't," she admits, a brief rush of embarrassment breaking through the thick haze of her arousal. "Not really, not since—God, there was a really awful time with my prom date, junior year, but that was different."

Jon's fingers circle around her calf, squeezing. It's distracting enough that she almost misses his next question. "Different how?"

Emily blinks, trying to concentrate. "I, uh, didn't know what I was doing when we tried it. Poor Josh didn't even notice, he just kind of passed out, but I swore it all off after that."

"He passed out?" Jon asks, the corner of his mouth rising. "Damn, how drunk _was_ he?"

Emily shakes her head, a small laugh escaping between her teeth. It turns into a sigh when Jon trails his hands up her legs, coaxing them further apart. "When the fangs come out, there's this—venom. It just makes you, like, pliable, I guess? Lethargic, easy to subdue." She reaches out to touch his neck, reorients herself to the desire threaded through her. "But I know what I want now. I won't bite."

"Okay." His hands settle on her hips, firm and sure. "I trust you." He's big and broad over her, and his touch makes all her muscles jump, impatient, the fever pitch of her want crashing over her in waves. He slides a palm up her stomach slowly, like he's gentling something powerful. "Don't worry," he says, grinning wider. The pad of his thumb teases across one of her nipples, infuriatingly light. "I won't bite either, unless you want me to."

Something about how tender he’s being makes Emily feel like crying, emotional and a little nervous, but now isn't the time. Jon's so fucking hard he's leaking, precome beaded at the tip of his dick. Emily wants him so much it feels like someone's struck a match and set her on fire. She lets out a noise of frustration, hitching her hips up. "You—Jon, I want—you have to—"

And then he _does_ , lining up and sliding into her in one clean movement that makes them both groan.

Jon tries holding himself up above her after first, but that only lasts until the first stroke out. She can feel her ridges dragging against his cock, and he collapses on top of her. "Oh my God, _Emily_." He makes a strangled sound into her neck. "You feel so—I've never—" He kisses her again before he can finish the sentence, up her throat and across her jaw, body weighing her into the mattress. After a brief pause, the two of them pressed close enough that she can feel his heartbeat fluttering against hers, she finally feels stable enough to let go of the sheets, skate her hands over his back.

She can't move like this. She's pinned, can't pull him deeper, but she doesn't have to. After one long, hissing exhale, he starts fucking into her with small, grinding movements that feel incredible inside her, rubbing past her ridges.

She clenches around him, fangs still sheathed, and he gasps and tucks his face into her neck. "Emily," Jon repeats, drawing the vowels of her name out. It takes her a moment to realize he's trembling. Emily's never experienced this kind of power: trust given over voluntarily, without pretense and without design except the promise of making each other feel good, except _I want to know everything about you_ , Emily's deepest secret surrounding Jon and pulling him deeper.

"Baby," she murmurs, turning to kiss his temple, "Jon, can you—"

Jon moves his hips, rolls them forward slow enough that Emily arches her head against the pillows and groans, long and loud. She can feel herself shivering too, a full body shake that makes it hard for her to clamp her legs around him, but she manages it. She can't dig her fangs into him—doesn't want to dig her fangs into him, and the heat running through her seems to understand, walking the razor's edge of desire—but she can dig her nails into his back just fine. Jon groans when she rakes them down. He pulls out a tad just to slide in again, over and over, faster now, like it'll hurt him to stop.

Jon's movements jolt her into the mattress. She feels like she could melt into him. Her chest is tight, and she can't seem to catch her breath, but only so much of that has to do with how he's fucking her, and more with—well, how he _wants_ to. His desperate, reverent touches. Like she's some kind of heavenly being, instead of the exact opposite. Even his short, harsh exhales feel cool on her hot skin.

It's when Jon's dropping his head to worry his mouth at the hollow of her throat that Emily comes again, unexpectedly. It isn't like the first time, out in the kitchen, where Emily could feel it coming from a mile away, building steadily and predictably. This one hits her blind like a freight train, when she didn't even realize she was standing on the tracks: she loses time, her mind blanks out, her spine tensing and arching underneath him.

She doesn't know how long she spends drifting, but she comes back into her body with a panicked jolt. It may have been only a few moments of thoughtless sensation, but that's more than enough time to—

The facts have been drilled into her since she was first taught about how she was different. Emily's body is a predator. Well-oiled. Elegantly designed for one thing. It only takes a fraction of a second for the adrenaline to course through her, for her fangs to extend, to _bite down_ before her prey even notices that something's changed.

She can't tell, for a heart-stopping moment, if she lost control. Jon's face is pressed against her chest and his movements have slowed, and if Emily couldn't breathe before it's like her lungs have been forcibly ripped from her chest. She's about to reach out and shake his shoulders, but then he lifts his head and kisses her sternum. "Am I okay to keep going?" he croaks, sheepish. "Think I lost you for a second there."

 _He's okay. We're okay. I didn't_ —"Yes," she gasps, pulling him up to kiss her. "Totally okay, oh my god."

Jon's starting to lose the thread a little, panting into her mouth as he fucks into her long and slow. He lifts his head so he can look at her properly, tuck the flyaway strands of her hair behind her ear. He's so clear-eyed that it stuns her, even as his hips hitch erratically. It still seems impossible for that to be true, but Jon's real and solid and working against her, building up to something, the slick squelch of where their bodies are joined rising over their labored breathing.

She clenches around him again, thighs squeezing his waist, and watches his eyes flutter. "Are you," she says, and has to clear her scratchy throat. "Are you close?" It's not something she's asked before, but she likes the feeling of the words in her mouth, likes the way Jon's arms tense and his shoulders shake, how he weighs her further down into the bed with every thrust.

"Fuck," Jon mumbles, sounding drunk with it, as if he _has_ been bitten and drugged up in his own way. "Yes, yes, Em—you're—fucking incredible." She arches herself up and clutches at his back, lets her nails bite into his skin again, and his face twists as he comes, eyes squeezing shut, a punched-out noise dragged up from his chest.

The rush of warm wetness between her legs makes her feel like she might come one more time, and it doesn't occur to her that Jon might try for it until he's worming his hand between them, still panting like he just ran a marathon, his delicate fingers sliding down her stomach and stroking the nub of her clit. "Jon," she says, high-pitched and jagged, "holy shit, you—"

She can't decide whether to shift up into his touch or try to squirm away, every nerve ending in her body lighting up as she goes rigid underneath him. She doesn't know what kind of sound she makes, but her throat feels raw when she swallows, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. When she manages to refocus on Jon's face, he looks so fond that it makes her rib cage feel too tight for her heart.

"I know," he says. "God, I know, me too." She barely notices him slipping out of her. He ducks down to kiss her again, like he can't stop himself. Emily gets it. She thinks she could kiss him forever and never get tired of it.

Jon pets at her gently until she absolutely has to push his hand away. This part is new to her, too. The _after_. Jon seems to know what he's doing, though, moving assuredly, guiding her to rest next to him.

"Hope you don't mind," he mumbles, wrapping himself around her like a very sweaty, very oversized barnacle. Emily doesn't. His physical presence is comforting, and it allows her to summon up some much-needed courage.

She stares up at his ceiling and asks, "So you aren't, like, completely weirded out? By my… whole situation." However enthusiastic Jon seemed tonight, Emily needs to hear him say it outside the heat of the moment. Needs that solid confirmation that he's okay with who—and what—she is.

"I'm, um—" Jon laughs and buries his face in her hair. "I'm extremely not weirded out by your _whole situation_. I'd very much like to explore said situation again, to be honest."

She'd probably berate him for being sleazy if she wasn't so bone-tired, so she settles for a lazy elbow into his side. _Extremely not weirded out_. She'll take it.

After a moment, he murmurs, "Are you okay?" His mouth drags across the round part of her shoulder. "I know it's been a while."

Emily takes stock of herself, the tingle between her legs and the pleasant soreness in her limbs, and smiles. "Yeah," she says, curling in closer, satisfied. "'M perfect."

Jon lets a hand fall across her abdomen, unknowingly splaying his palm over the place where her venom stays. It feels a little warmer under her skin tonight, pooled low in her belly. She lets him pull her closer, shifts to make sure her teeth are still sheathed. Jon’s breathing has evened out behind her. He's warm and solid against her when he says, sleepy and almost like an afterthought: “We should… practice next time. Maybe I can — feel them. For real. See what it's like.”

"Oh," Emily says, knocked off-kilter again. It's difficult not to be surprised by Jon every day; she hopes that feeling never goes away. "You'd want that? To be bitten."

"If it's okay with you," Jon says. _I want to know everything about you_ , he said, and it rings in her ears one more time, over the rush of blood, the beating of her heart.

"More than okay," she whispers, turning in the circle of his arms to kiss his chin, and lets herself drift off into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> with thanks to all spectators along the way back last june, and electr1c_compass, our cryptid gfs partner in crime, for the generous beta and title suggestion from "teeth" by lady gaga. ♥
> 
> there's also like, 2k of emily consensually drugging jon with her fangs and pegging the hell out of him floating around somewhere, so in an ideal world that might one day see the light of day 🙏🏻


End file.
